The Bonehill Curse

by Jon Mayhew

  ‘Could you take me to Bonehill House on Brompton Road?’ she asked.

  ‘Could do,’ the driver muttered in a disgusting, nasal voice, pulling his finger out and rolling what he’d found into a ball. ‘You got money?’

  ‘No, but my father, Mr Anthony Bonehill, does – lots of it,’ Ness snapped, raising her head imperiously and staring straight into the driver’s eyes. ‘He’ll pay you handsomely for bringing me home.’

  The driver looked at her properly and jumped down, wiping his fingers on his grubby coat as he landed. ‘Forgive me, miss,’ he said, pulling open the door to the cab and touching the brim of his hat. ‘It’s just, well, your dress, like . . . It’s not, I mean, I can tell by yer voice that yer genteel, like, but –’

  ‘Never mind that,’ Ness said, glancing around once and then clambering in, wrinkling her nose at the musty mildewed smell that mingled with the polished leather upholstery. ‘My father will be wondering where I am. Get a move on, please.’

  The cab bounced and squeaked as the driver got into the rear seat and flicked his whip at the horse. Ness leaned forward to peer out of the covered passenger compartment just in time to see the boy in the turban breaking cover from the crowd. He skidded to a halt and looked helplessly from right to left as if searching for a ride himself. Ness threw herself back in the cab and banged on the ceiling.

  ‘Faster, man, faster,’ she snapped at the driver above. She was being followed, that much was certain. She had to lose him and get home.

  The cab rocked along the grimy streets but Ness barely noticed the passing neighbourhoods. Her stomach fluttered. She was excited about seeing home again and yet a cold dread filled her too. Her old bedroom stood out clear in her memory, as did the study where Miss Cheem the governess had taught her. In her mind’s eye, she swept into the hallway with its tiled floor and grand staircase. Rowson, the head butler, would stand to attention, arm crooked ready to receive coats. Ness gave a slight smile.

  ‘Here we are, miss, Brompton Road,’ the driver called down, snapping her out of her thoughts. He said something else but Ness wasn’t listening.

  Instead of gazing up at her home, she stared at the pile of smouldering masonry and timber that sprawled where Bonehill House once stood.

  The smell of smoke filled the air and a crowd of ragged urchins scrambled over the charred beams and crumbling stonework. They tiptoed in bare feet through hot ash searching for anything worth salvaging.

  Ness jumped out of the cab. She staggered over a heap of rubble and ran through what used to be the front door, grabbing at the nearest boy, who cradled a charred satchel in his arms.

  ‘Get away,’ she screamed, snatching the satchel and almost hurling him bodily behind her. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Leave it out,’ yelled another boy in rags. ‘There’s fine pickings to be ’ad ’ere an’ no mistake.’

  Ness advanced on him. ‘Not while I’m here,’ she snarled, raising a fist. ‘This is my house and you’ve no right to be here!’

  The boy rubbed his cheek and weighed Ness up. He backed off, then gave a whistle and the other children scurried after him.

  Beyond them she saw a young girl in a maid’s uniform, tugging at a silver tray that poked from beneath a pile of bricks. She recognised the tiles of what would have been the reception hall, but they were cracked and grey, peeping through gaps in a thick coating of ash.

  ‘What happened? Where is everyone?’ Ness asked the girl. ‘Where are Mr and Mrs Bonehill? Are they . . . Did they get out?’

  The maid looked up, dazed, her face streaked with ash. ‘I dunno,’ she said, wiping her eye with the back of her hand. ‘It happened in the night. Master and Mistress were all tucked up, then the next minute it was all smoke an’ flames.’ The maid shuddered. ‘I wouldn’t ’ave come back, only my husband, he said there might be somethin’ left behind that’s worth havin’. I said I wouldn’t come back ’ere for all the tea in China after I saw that . . . that . . . thing . . . but he made me.’

  ‘Thing?’ Ness repeated, clutching the satchel to her.

  ‘It was ’orrible,’ the maid whispered. ‘A hideous creature dancin’ through the flames, like a little doll made of bones. No one believed me, mind.’

  ‘A little doll?’ Ness felt as if she were falling down a deep well. The thing that came out of the bottle, the djinn, had been here . . .

  A shadow fell across her and she gazed up at the driver.

  ‘Beggin’ yer pardon, miss,’ he said, feeding the brim of his hat through his fingers. ‘I know this is a delicate time an’ all but it was a long journey ’cross town an’ I was wonderin’, if yer don’t need takin’ elsewhere, I’ll ’ave me money now please.’

  ‘I don’t know where anyone is,’ Ness murmured. ‘I don’t even know if they’re alive or dead.’

  ‘I do need my fare, with it bein’ so far an’ all.’ The driver edged closer.

  Ness’s mind cleared and she frowned at the driver. ‘You’re asking me for payment at a time like this?’ Fury boiled up inside her.

  ‘Well, with all due respect, I didn’t burn your ’ouse down,’ the driver said, his voice hardening. ‘Or aren’t you who you say yer are?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Ness snapped back.

  ‘Yeah, that would be a clever old ruse, that would.’ The driver leered at her. ‘Trick me into drivin’ you all across town to a place you know ’as just burnt down recent, like.’

  ‘How dare you?’ Ness stared at the man. His lopsided grin, his round nose and yellowed teeth revolted her.

  ‘Oh, I wasn’t born yesterday, missy,’ he sneered. ‘Excuse me, miss.’ The driver tapped the maid’s shoulder and pointed to Ness. ‘Could you tell me who this is?’

  The maid looked at Ness and shook her head.

  ‘This is ridiculous. Of course she doesn’t know me,’ Ness said. ‘She’s new, barely the same age as me.’

  ‘Ridiculous, is it?’ the driver snarled and grabbed her wrist.

  Instinctively, Ness gave him a sharp punch to the nose. Swearing, the driver released her, staggering back. Ness turned to run but saw an elderly man striding over the rubble towards them. Although smudged with ash and cinders, she could see that his tails and striped trousers were those of a butler. A silver chain stretched across his bulging waistcoat.

  ‘Rowson,’ Ness called with relief as the butler drew close. ‘Thank goodness.’

  But the butler showed no sign of recognition.

  ‘This girl reckons she lives ’ere,’ said the driver, gripping his bleeding nose. ‘She says she’s Miss Bonehill.’

  ‘That’s impossible,’ Rowson said, frowning at the driver and Ness. The butler’s thinning grey hair fluttered in the breeze like the smoke that drifted across the ruins. ‘Necessity Bonehill is dead. She has been these last five years. I went to her funeral myself.’

  Better an honest enemy than a false friend.

  Traditional proverb

  Chapter Eight

  Back from the Grave

  Silence fell across the smoking ruins of Bonehill House as Ness tried to take in what Rowson had just said.

  ‘Rowson, it’s me, Necessity. I’ve been at Rookery Heights Academy for Young Ladies for the last five years!’

  ‘I’m not sure who you are, miss,’ Rowson said, stiffening. ‘And I don’t know if this is some kind of practical joke but it’s in very poor taste considering the circumstances.’

  ‘I knew it.’ The driver gave a yellow grin in spite of his bleeding nose. ‘Call a constable. She’s barmy!’

  Ness lurched forward, gripping Rowson’s lapels. ‘Please, Rowson. It’s me, Ness. I used to lock Cook in the pantry and ride on the dumb waiter . . .’

  Rowson frowned.

  Is that recognition in his eyes?

  His face hardened. ‘I’m sorry, miss, but I’ll not stand by and sully the memory of a poor, departed young girl. You do look familiar but you could be any one of thirty chambermaids dismissed in th
e last five years just chancing their arm.’

  ‘But I am Necessity!’ she pleaded.

  Rowson slapped her hands away from him. ‘Necessity Bonehill died of a fever contracted at Rookery Heights.’ His voice rose to a bellow. ‘I helped carry the coffin myself.’

  ‘Police! Police!’ the driver yelled. ‘Mad girl on the loose!’

  One of the urchins, seeing his chance to get rid of Ness, hurried off yelling, ‘Murder!’

  Ness glanced from the distant boy back to Rowson and the driver, who made a grab for her. She easily sidestepped it and sent him sprawling on to a pile of bricks.

  ‘Rowson, surely you must remember – you always used to rescue me from Cook and Miss Cheem the governess –’

  ‘Just go.’ Rowson glared at Ness. Was it her imagination or were those tears glistening in his eyes? Then he whispered, ‘Get out of here. It’s not safe. The master and mistress weren’t found in the wreckage. You must find them!’

  Ness frowned. ‘But where should I look? I don’t know where to go.’

  Rowson glanced down at the groaning driver and then looked at Ness again. ‘Just run,’ he said, his eyes beseeching. He does recognise me! ‘Henry Lumm,’ he whispered urgently. ‘Gladwell Gardens. He can help you. Now go!’

  A distant whistle accompanied shouts as the urchins came bounding over the rubble towards Ness. ‘There she is,’ called one boy.

  ‘She’s laid that cabby low,’ called another.

  The shrill police whistle grew louder.

  Ness gave a cry of frustration, stuffed the satchel into the sack and sprinted off through the wreckage.

  ‘Stop ’er,’ the driver called.

  A large man loomed from behind a column of blackened brick, opening his arms. Tucking the sack under her arm, Ness threw herself to the left, scraping along the brickwork and rolling under his right arm. She kicked into his calf muscle, sending him thumping to the ground.

  Advancing deeper into the wreckage, she scurried around gutted rooms, glimpsing half-familiar sticks of furniture or scraps of fabric. All burned and singed. Suddenly, she was out of the ruins and in the small kitchen garden. A six-foot brick wall still sealed this area off. Ness glanced back. A mustachioed constable was gaining on her.

  With a yell of defiance, she sprinted at the wall, bouncing on to a water barrel that stood against it and hurling herself upward. The top of the wall winded her as she landed there on her ribs. She dropped the sack over the other side but a strong hand gripped her ankle.

  ‘Let go of me,’ Ness snarled and kicked back, raking her heel down the side of the hand, aiming to cause more pain than damage.

  ‘Ow! ’Ere, watch ’er – she’s vicious,’ the constable yelped as his grip loosened.

  Ness swung her legs up and over the top of the wall.

  She glanced round. She’d landed in a yard that backed on to another large house. She wasn’t safe yet. She could hear voices echoing behind her but also to her left. A crowd was making its way round to the front of this house. Cursing under her breath, Ness snatched up the sack and sprinted to a small side gate. She slipped out of the yard and walked briskly down the street, trying to look casual.

  ‘She’s in the backyard there,’ cried an urgent voice.

  ‘Careful, she gave that copper a good old kick!’ called one of the boys.

  The end of the street drew near and she would be able to turn a corner and lose them any second. But the sound of hoofs on the cobbles made Ness groan. The hansom cab pulled level with her just before she reached the corner.

  ‘Thought you’d managed to sneak off, did yer?’ The driver leered. A bruise now ran across the bridge of his nose and blood caked one nostril.

  Ness heaved a sigh, paused for a second and then approached the driver’s seat.

  ‘I should’ve done this in the first place,’ she muttered.

  Dropping the sack on the passenger seat, she quickly grabbed the driver’s thumb, twisting it. He leaned forward, crying out. Ness dragged him down, pulled the whip from his other hand and planted him heavily head first on the cobbles.

  Without looking back, she swung herself up into the driver’s seat, gave a flick of the whip, a jig of the reins, and the horse skipped off, leaving the driver groaning on the ground.

  The horse trotted on, weaving in and out of the other carriages and carts, taking her away from Bonehill House. Ness had driven traps before – with Morris – and the horse seemed to know where they were going. Once the ruins were well behind her, she relaxed a little. She tried to head for Gladwell Gardens but the horse had other ideas and trotted stubbornly eastward through ever-narrowing streets. The sack lay in her lap. Peering in, Ness saw charred papers and the elegant swirl of her mother’s handwriting poking out of the satchel. A sob caught in her throat.

  Ness sat numbly, allowing the horse to meander and barely noticing the stares and the occasional angry cry as the horse cut across another cab’s path. Going back to her parents had been a chance to make everything all right. Instead things were much worse and more puzzling than she could ever have imagined. Why did Mama and Father hide me in Rookery Heights and tell the world I had died?

  The horse stopped in a dingy back alley just outside the crumbling entrance to a courtyard. It had clearly made its way home. The windows in the sagging houses that lined the alley were cracked and grimy, but Ness could sense the peering eyes behind them. Perhaps the driver had made his way home too. No, surely he couldn’t have arrived before her? Ness tried hard to think how long she’d been travelling.

  She slid out of the seat and gave the horse a pat on the rump. With a whinny, it ambled into the courtyard while Ness hurried off up the narrow lane.

  She had no sense of the real time in the twilight maze of streets. She didn’t know where she was going either. Surely Jacob Carr would have set sail by now. Now there was no one to help her. Here and there, yells drifted from within the slums. Ragged, suspicious-eyed men smoking pipes watched her pass. She ignored the comments shouted after her.

  The alleys seemed endless, running into stinking courtyards, splitting off into several directions. The stench of the river drifted up the dark passages. Ness wrinkled her nose at the green, slimy puddles that grey-faced children seemed happy to play in.

  Footsteps echoed on the cobbles behind her, falling into rhythm with hers and speeding up as she increased her pace. Glancing over her shoulder, Ness saw three young men, unshaven, wearing crumpled top hats too big for them. Their clothes, although well made, were ill-fitting and patched. Probably stolen, Ness thought. The youth in the lead clenched a stubby clay pipe between his teeth as he grinned at her.

  ‘Wait up, miss,’ he called. ‘We only want ter pass the time of day.’

  Ness began to run, but the men were too close and soon caught up with her. One of them circled round in front, forcing Ness to stop.

  ‘I wonder what you’re doin’ in these parts,’ he grinned, his pipe waggling between his teeth. ‘Harmy Sullivan,’ he said, lifting his battered top hat to reveal a shock of shaggy, red hair.

  ‘It ain’t safe, a young lady without a chaperone this time o’ day,’ laughed another, darker-featured and smaller member of the gang, who nudged the lead man. ‘Is it, Harmy?’

  ‘It ain’t safe any time o’ day, Tulla.’ Harmy nodded, looking Ness up and down. ‘All kinds of ruffians roamin’ these streets, up to no good.’

  ‘We could chaperone ’er,’ Tulla said, his voice theatrical as if he’d just thought of the idea and it came as a total surprise to him.

  ‘No, thank you,’ Ness said and turned to walk away.

  More young men had appeared in front of her. There were at least eight of them now, grimy with city life, dressed in shabby grandeur.

  ‘That’s not nice. After me introducin’ meself all genteel, like,’ Harmy murmured. ‘Surely you can spare some time to talk to us.’

  Harmy made a grab for Ness’s wrist but she brought it up to meet the bowl of his pipe, pushi
ng it and its hot contents into his mouth. With a garbled scream of rage and agony, Harmy bent double trying to spit out the hot ash.

  Ness charged forward, pulling one man’s necktie and cracking his head against another’s. But Tulla leapt forward too, swinging a stick at Ness. Its clubbed end clipped her head, sending her spinning to the cobbled ground.

  The remaining five men advanced. Tulla slapped the stick into his palm with each step. In the background, Harmy Sullivan cursed and spat.

  ‘I reckon you need teachin’ a lesson, miss.’ Tulla grinned. ‘You have to show us a little respect.’

  Ness shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. Her temple pounded and blood trickled into her eye. With a well-aimed leg sweep, she could take two of them down, but the other three would still be ready to take their place. She tensed and prepared to spring.

  Just then two men at the back crumpled to the ground as a screaming apparition appeared from above.

  Ness recognised the boy in the turban at once. He was swinging two curved swords and howled like a lost soul. Two of the gang fled instantly, bowling Harmy over.

  The boy hacked at Tulla, sweeping the broad blade at his head. Tulla screamed and fell to his knees, his top hat cut clean in half but no other damage done. The boy kicked out at him, sending him sprawling.

  ‘Come with me quickly,’ the boy snapped at Ness and set off at a brisk jog down a side alley.

  Ness hesitated. Could she trust him?

  Tulla groaned and began to pick himself up. ‘Stop that bloomin’ heathen,’ Harmy yelled. He’d gathered his senses and was pulling one of the other gang members to his feet.

  The boy paused and glared back at her. ‘You must come now!’ he hissed.

  Ness took one glance at the quickly recovering gang and plunged after the boy in the turban.

  The Aged in Council; the young in action.

  Traditional proverb

  Chapter Nine

  The Lashkars of Sulayman

  Ness panted, her old boots slapping on the cobbles. The boy’s silhouette grew smaller as the distance between them opened up. He stopped and snapped, ‘Hurry!’ at her once and then darted down the alley. Left then right, then left again. Her head throbbed where Tulla had clipped her with the stick. She gritted her teeth, determined not to show any weakness to this stranger who had apparently rescued her. She had no idea where they were or where they were going. Ness felt as if she were doubling back on herself. Behind, angry voices still bounced around the courtyards and lanes of the slums. Soon she caught up with him.